“Nonsense, man,” replied Dunroe, “I have satisfied you on that point before.  But I say, Norton, is not this a great bite on the baronet, especially as he considers himself a knowing one?”

“Yes, I grant you, a great bite, no doubt; but, at the same time, I rather guess you may thank me for the possession of Miss Gourlay, and the property which will go along with her.”

“As how, Norton?”

“Why, don’t you remember the anonymous note which I wrote to the baronet, when I was over in Dublin to get the horse changed?  He was then at Red Hall.  I am certain that were it not for that hint, there would have been an elopement.  You know it was the fellow who shot you, that was then in her neighborhood, and he is at present in town.  I opened the baronet’s eyes at all events.”

“Faith, to tell you the truth, Norton, although I know you do me in money matters now and then, still I believe you to be a faithful fellow.  In fact, you owe me more than you are aware of.  You know not how I have resisted the respectable old nobleman’s wishes to send you adrift as an impostor and cheat.  I held firm, however, and told him I could never with honor abandon my friend.”

“Many thanks, Dunroe; but I really must say that I am neither an impostor nor a cheat; and that if ever a man was true friend and faithful to man, I am that friend to your lordship; not, God knows, because you are a lord, but because you are a far better thing—­a regular trump.  A cheat! curse it,” clapping his hands over his eyes, to conceal his emotion, “isn’t my name Norton? and am I not your friend?”

At this moment a servant came in, and handed Lord Dunroe a note, which he was about to throw to Norton, who generally acted as a kind of secretary to him; but observing the depth and sincerity and also the modesty of his feelings, he thought it indelicate to trouble him with it just then.  Breakfast was now over, and Dunroe, throwing himself back in an arm-chair, opened the letter—­read it—­then another that was contained in it; after which he rose up, and travelled the room with a good deal of excitement.  He then approached Norton, and said, in a voice that might be said to have been made up of heat and cold, “What disturbs you?”

Norton winked both eyes, did the pathetic a bit, then pulled out his pocket handkerchief, and blew his nose up to a point little short of distress itself.  In the meantime, Dunroe suddenly left the room without Norton’s knowledge, who replied, however, to the last question, under the impression that his lordship was present,

“Ah, my dear Dunroe, the loss of a true friend is a serious thing in a world like this, where so many cheats and impostors are going.”

To this, however, he received no reply; and on looking round and finding that his dupe had gone out, he said: 

“Curse the fellow—­he has cut me short.  I was acting friendship to the life, and now he has disappeared.  However, I will resume it when I hear his foot on the return.  His hat is there, and I know he will come back for it.”